Quotes About Beauty

Recklessly, he decided to tell the real truth. "Because it will be beautiful," he said.

The cloud layer was moving on, and the sinking sun was visible behind its trailing edge out across the sea.

The invention of the pointed arch, he wrote, was a rare event in history, when the solution to a technical problem—how to build a taller church—was also sublimely beautiful.

Al negro de raza la arruga no amenaza»

He asked himself what was so striking about her, and realized immediately that everything was in harmony, like the parts of a beautiful church. Her mouth, her chin, her cheekbones, and her forehead were just as he would have drawn them if he had been God creating a woman. She

Out along the dim six-o'clock street, I saw leafless trees standing, striking the sidewalk there like wooden lightning, concrete split apart where they hit, all in a fenced-in ring. An iron line of pickets stuck out of the ground along the front of a tangleweed yard, and on back was a big frame house with a porch, leaning a rickety shoulder hard into the wind so's not to be sent tumbling away a couple of blocks like an empty cardboard grocery box.

And the forest at night might be beautiful, but if it was dark how was a man to know that?

And we are all surrounded by that skin, and he's trying to show us some beauty in this condition.

In the fall when they burn the stubble off the fields the sun gets this dusty hazy color, and the mare's-tail clouds whipping along near Wakonda Head look like goldenrod bent over by the wind. It's always real pretty. You can almost hear it ring in the sky.

Sometimes—after futile all-nights—deserts fill my work-house and smoking sand gets in my eyes . . . and I must split the swollen cabin to check the dawn, to find: the creek still parties with the moon . . . the thrusting pine and whippoorwills still celebrate the sun. It generally works, and things are cool, but sometimes—after cutting out—nothing out there happens but the night. And those days were best forgotten.

In the deepening sky where the spearpoint firs scratch the clouds, already a moon—like a cast-off paring from the setting sun. This is Hank's bell, too.

wy, dziwki, nawet sie nie pchajcie, chyba ze macie cycki jak melony i mocne, zgrabne, biale nogi dostatecznie dlugie, zeby owinac nimi jego potezne plecy, a cipy gorace, soczyste i slodkie jak miod...

And the redwinged blackbirds sing in the budding greengage plumtree.

it is all exactly as it should be, when the robin sings on a glorious morning, and rain drops beat on the temple roof.

On a day like this, I can't imagine anything better that might happen in a person's life than for them to start paying attention to birds—to become aware of this magical world that exists all around us, unnoticed by many but totally captivating for those who know its secrets. This kind of spring day, with its bountiful myriads of colorful sprites just arrived from tropical shores, has to be one of the greatest gifts of life on Earth.

Birds are beautiful. After a lifetime of study I still love to look at them and listen to them, even the common species.

intrinsically vulgar, depraved, or morbid. That's as may be. "Using" is inferior to "reception" because art, if used rather than received, merely facilitates, brightens, relieves or palliates our life, and does not add to it.7

Lives devoted to Beauty seldom end well.

I never underestimate the power of hot rollers for your hair and eyelash curlers for your eyelashes.

I'm a great believer in the beauty and the power of surprise.

Our very contract with nature has a deep restorative power; contemplation of its magnificence imparts peace and serenity.

For me, a page of good prose is where one hears the rain and the noise of battle. It has the power to give grief or universality that lends it a youthful beauty.

When beauty is universal, it loses its power to move the heart, and only its absence can produce any emotional effect.

Her lips are roses over-washed with dew, Or like the purple of Narcissus' flower; No frost their fair, no wind doth waste their power, But by her breath her beauties to renew.